


Slow And Fast

by ruthmakesstuff (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, bipolar!Anders, self harm implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ruthmakesstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is alone, and unwell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow And Fast

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really a fic so much as it as a theme exploration? I wanted to see if I could capture the feeling of a mixed/dysphoric manic episode. There's no plot, here.
> 
> Additional note: I _really_ don't want to perpetuate the idea that mentally ill people are all aggressive or anything negative about Anders - I love Anders. This portrayal of dysphoric mania is based on personal and anecdotal experience, not stereotyping.

Time passed too slowly.

Time passed too slowly, and it _hurt_.

He wasn’t even waiting for anything to happen, which made it worse. If there was some kind of event, some kind of deadline, it would at least draw nearer, but no. This was just time. Passing. Slowly.

Anders, in contrast, was fast. He paced around the clinic with the torch unlit outside it, drumming his fingers against the walls. He couldn’t face people today. He couldn’t heal. Healing required focus, and all he had was – what was that noise?

He whipped around, electricity crackling between his fingers before he’d even thought to cast a spell.

There was nothing there. He let the electricity go.

He untied his hair, running his hands through it, half smoothing, half pulling. Re-tied it. Untied it again. Threw the tie across the room. It landed softly, silent, and this made him angry. He needed things to _react_ to him.

He ran his hands over the wood grain of his desk. Then, with force magic, punched a fist through it. It splintered and cracked, and the entire desk caved inwards. It satisfied him, but the satisfaction felt short-lived.

A cry of frustration escaped his lips, starting deep in his chest and magnifying in his throat. Could he experience sensory deprivation and overload at the same time? The skin of his arms where he raked it with fingernails felt simultaneously numb and as if it were burning white hot.

Nothing stayed, nothing stuck. Sensation dulled, instantly. Thoughts flitted out of his head as soon as they entered, leaving a constant stream of uninterpretable verbal static. He needed to keep moving, to keep touching things, or else there was nothing, and nothing _hurt_.


End file.
